


We are something else.

by Hyorangejuice



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, peculiar children/mutant au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:54:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2289371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyorangejuice/pseuds/Hyorangejuice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a mansion hidden in the woods, where peculiar people live. It is indeed a peculiar house, of red bricks and hardwood floors, granite stairs and secret passages that open up behind old paintings. The gardens bleed into the woods, reaching into each other, until it is impossible to say where one ends and the other begins.</p><p>Each drabble stands on its own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eat flowers and don't be afraid.

**Author's Note:**

> each story stands sort of on his own, but they all take place in the same place and feature more or less the same people. Some have powers, some don't... it's just something I stared thinking about and it became this.

There is a mansion hidden in the woods, where peculiar people live. It is indeed a peculiar house, of red bricks and hardwood floors, granite stairs and secret passages that open up behind old paintings. The gardens bleed into the woods, reaching into each other, until it is impossible to say where one ends and the other begins.   
It is Hwang Zitao's job to tend to the gardens and Zitao takes his job very seriously. He walks barefoot on the always green grass and curls his toes in the soft ground, feeling the morning hue wet his feet pleasantly cold.   
The sun is barely rising on the horizon when he makes his way out of the house for his morning routine. Setting his cane aside, he inhales the chill morning air, expanding his ribcage as far as it goes. Feeling the slight burnt of the cold on the back of his throat, Zitao thinks about the first time he walked through the gates at the end of the sandy white path that leads to the house. They are blurry, too far ahead for him to put them into focus, but he doesn't need to see them to know they are there, the closest thing to a confine they have.   
He avoids the path made of sleek rocks that circles the house and goes straight for the lawn, as soon as his feet find the soft ground and the grass blades tickle the plants of his feet, Zitao feels at home. He kneels, running his hands through the still wet grass and smiles feeling it thrumming to life under his fingertips.   
He moves then towards the buses of roses and buttercups, that seem to bow towards his outstretched hands, waiting for him to touch them. He follows the weakest rose branch until it connects to its core trunk and feels the ground around the roots. It is a little dry, but Joonmyeon-hyung is probably still asleep, so he lets his fingers cut through the rich humus, going to stroke the buried roots. A bud blooms near his cheek, it feels a little like a blown kiss.   
There is not much to do in the garden this morning, and after a quick walk around, Zitao moves to the greenhouse. It was built around the end of the eighteenth century, according to the records they found in the house, and its pillar, made of chestnut and cherry, still hold it up today. The high ceilings are all made of glass, and a series of pipes collect the rainwater and take it to a tank, half buried in the ground behind the greenhouse.   
It is important for the flowers to be always fresh and well, with them being on of the main sources of income for the inhabitants of the house. Zitao tends to all of them with equal amount of attention and care, making sure that they arrive in perfect condition down to the flower-shop of the town nearby, or to the station, where they will be shipped to the nearby cities.   
Their flowers are famous for being the most colorful and the most beautiful, not to mention the ones who last the longest and are at disposal all around the year. Zitao is very proud of the little niche of loyal costumers he has built himself, despite never having met any of them.   
The first thing he does is opening the two big ceiling windows, to let in the fresh morning air. Despite Chanyeol's protests that they should have just called someone to install automatic ones, Zitao likes the little strain of turning the small crank handle that makes the windows slide open. He likes his things a little old-fashioned anyway.   
Something, though, is off this morning, the flowers seem troubled and their agitation only increases when Zitao walks further in. He furrows his brows, reaching for the little leaves of the forget-me-nots on his right. 

“I would really appreciate it if you would stop sleeping here, Minseok-hyung, it upsets the flowers,” he barks, but there is little bite to his words and they both know it. 

“But the house is so stuffy,” the voice comes from up ahead, Minseok must have climbed up the oak tree again. Zitao rises his head, but all he sees are splotches of browns and greens against the pale violet of the morning sky.   
The oak tree stands proudly in the middle of the greenhouse. It is very old, and its voice is a low murmur Zitao finds most soothing when his headaches act up and no medecine can seem to do him any good. The branches have grown and spread and breached through the old ceiling, but Zitao refused to have it cut, so they pierced a hole through the new ceiling, to let it grow. 

“There are many trees outside of the greenhouse,” Zitao murmurs to himself, Minseok is stubborn and isn't easily swayed, Zitao will only have to deal with it. 

He can hear the rustling of leaves and a muted thud. He feels the ground slightly tremble under the plants of his feet more than he actually hears Minseok's steps. Only when he is a few feet away from him he can see the faint outline of Minseok's thin body. 

“Yes, but this is the most comfortable,” Minseok says, taking those last few steps, and he is so close that Zitao can feel his hot breath fan his lips. 

Even this up close, Minseok's face is nothing more than splashes of colors that melt into one another, no matter how hard Zitao tries to focus. It's unsettling how Minseok seems to be scrutinizing him, when Zitao can't do the same. What do you see? He would like to ask, is it dark there?   
Zitao doesn't know what this feeling flaring up in his stomach is, but it feels a lot like frustration. It burns hot and cold and leaves him hanging, waiting, with his mouth open in a silent plea for an answer, even though he doesn't know what the question is.   
He wishes Minseok were a flower, so that he could know him like the back of his hand and not feel this... hopelessness, this blind in front of him. Minseok smells earthy, like fresh mush and oak bark. Maybe Minseok is a little like one of Zitao's flowers. 

“I'll leave you to your job then,” Minseok's voice has a tilt to it that makes Zitao uncomfortable. He doesn't need sight to know that Minseok is smiling. 

The flowers are still thrumming, their songs are agitated and speak of restlessness, this time, though, it is not Minseok's fault.


	2. colour outside my lines

Peculiarity is not hereditary. It is not a heirloom one passes from generation to generation like a dust collector or a nice couch. It pops out like a violet between the heavy rocks of a mountain, growing in the worst possible conditions, brewing under the surface. Some people don't notice the difference until much after, some know right away.   
Kim Jongdae knew right away. It is not a skill he can ignore, and not for lack of trying. Most of the times, he manages to tune it down, like a background noise, or the sound of cicadas in a hot summer day. Sometimes he can't though, and that's why his room is the only one in the east wing and the only one with a lock.   
Early in the morning is Jongdae's favorite time of the day, that's why he is one of the firsts to wake up. With a cup of hot coffee in hand, he watches Zitao walk barefoot in the garden. He smiles, letting the wave of serenity coming from Zitao crush over him. Feelings like those are pale blue in Jongdae's mind.   
He soaks in as much as he can, concentrating on the warmness pooling in his belly, spreading through his limbs and enveloping his mind. He is so focused on Zitao that he almost misses the shock of red coming from his left. Red is not a good feeling. Red is hot anger and blind rage. The change is so sharp and sudden Jongdae almost gets backlash, and his grip on the mug of coffee tightens until he is almost sure it is about to shatter.   
The sound of the chair scraping on the floor is loud in the morning quietness. Jongin flops down and lays his head on the cool table, he looks on the brink of falling asleep, but Jongdae knows he is far from that. He would like to pet his head and tell him it will be fine, that he has them and not to worry, but he knows that would only enrage Jongin further. 

“Do you want milk?” he asks, his voice comes out strained. He tries very hard not to snap at Jongin when he just shrugs and doesn't answer. 

Jongdae takes a sharp breath and thinks about blue things – the sea, the sky, his favourite sweater, the lilies Zitao has been growing in the greenhouse – it helps when it all gets a little too much. Categorizing emotions is a little like owning them, and Jongdae needs whatever little control he can get. Jongin is young and his emotions are always stronger, rawer and Jongdae has a hard time keeping them at bay.  
The change is sudden, like a switch. One moment Jongdae's chest felt much too full and the next it is far too empty, void, leaving him short of breath. Unconsciously, Jongdae rubs a hand over his chest. When the emotions get too intense the downfall is always more painful, the hole to fill larger, and Jongdae is afraid of that first deep breath that seem to never end. 

“Morning,” Yifan's voice in the morning is low and gravelly, like it is reluctant to break the silence. He gives Jongin a pat on the head, it's more like a warning than anything else, and Jongin seems to deflate a little. 

“Morning,” he mumbles, reaching for the coffee pot. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Yifan slides over his green cup with the sloppy flower Zitao gave him for his birthday, and Jongdae fills it almost to the brim. Yifan is grey in Jongdae's palette of borrowed emotions and states of being. Yifan is the quietness Jongdae can't quite piece together, so different from Zitao's blues, because it doesn't speak softly of the morning hue or the beauty of a blooming flower, it is silent, it is the emptiness Jongdae fears the most. 

“I have deliveries to make this morning, want to come?” Yifan holds his cup circling it with both hands, his fingers redden absorbing the warmth of the coffee.

“Yes, just let me get dressed.” 

Before leaving the kitchen, Jongdae prepares a tall glass of warm milk for Jongin. He places it near his nose, murmuring a soft drink up, and smiles when Jongin childishly pulls at the hem of his nightshirt in a silent thank you. 

 

Yifan always drives below the speed limit, he grips the steering wheel with one hand and the gear with the other looking a little like the model he used to be. Jongdae knows why Yifan always asks him to go with him, despite being the most unremarkable one in terms of brute strength.  
At first it was worse, being around Yifan, the stillness and the silence were harder to face than the rush of feelings that came and went when he was around the others. He was never sure of what he was supposed to feel.

“Did you get the grocery list?” Yifan's eyes never leave the road. 

“Yes, it was pinned on the board,” he fingers the little slip of paper in his pocket and rolls down his window all the way. With the wind ruffling his hair he closes his eyes and lets himself feel.


End file.
